Living Dead Girl
by Shae07
Summary: Ten years ago he left you alive and now you just want to know why?


_**So beautiful they make you, kill.**_

The Winter Soldier isn't just any ghost story.

He is _your _ghost story.

Something awakens you quickly and the streetlight outside your bedroom window casts a soft orange glow across the features of the man standing at the foot of your bed. Before you have time to scream, he's on top you – pinning you to the mattress – metal fingers pinching your skin as they wrap around your throat. Your heart pounds in your chest as you open your mouth, trying to gasp for air as he pushes down harder against your trachea.

"Moy," the Russian word is thick as it slips past his lips, blue eyes staring into your soul. "You are mine."

Your body jerks upright in bed, a cold sweat drenching your body and dampening your sheets. The air in your room is cool with the scent of the lavender lotion you used after your shower earlier, but you also pick up hints of sandalwood. You know it's from him – the smell – like a sense memory. The nightmare has haunted you for over ten years now and everytime you awaken from it you can smell the faint traces of cologne.

He had let you live the night he was sent to murder your aunt and uncle in cold blood, but the thought of him coming back to finish the job is never far from your mind.

_**10 Years Earlier**_

_After the car accident six months earlier, your aunt and uncle, who lived just outside of DC had taken you in. A know-it-all teenager with a smart-ass attitude. All you knew about your uncle's job was it involved the government, aside from that you didn't care. You were sneaking in through the side door of the kitchen late one night past curfew when you heard muffled gunshots upstairs. Maybe it was the alcohol, or the Xanax you had popped earlier in the night, but you felt brazen enough to grab a large steak knife from the butcher's block on the counter and quietly make your way up the stairs. You could hear heavy footsteps coming from your aunt and uncle's bedroom and you instinctively kept the knife down at your side, tucked against the back of your thigh. _

_At the top of the stairs you had paused and looked around, no longer hearing anyone move about. You carefully edged your way along the wall until you were close to the bedroom door. Moonlight from the window at the far end of the hallway cast an eerie glow across the dark hardwood at your feet and for a brief moment you chastised yourself, because you were the girl in the horror movies who went to investigate the noise instead of running away. _

_As if on cue, the door to the bedroom jerked open and you were slammed into the wall by something cold and hard around your throat. The man towered over you as his metal fingers held your neck firmly in place. His long black hair framed his face almost too perfectly and you could see the black stubble along his jawline. Ice blue eyes stared down at you menacingly and you knew it was over. Quickly, your hand had brought the blade up and shoved it hilt deep into his ribs. You felt as the knife ripped through the muscle and tissue just below the metal arm. An overwhelming thrill coursed through your veins as his eyes widened in shock and his mouth opened slightly. He glanced to the knife briefly before he flicked his rage filled eyes back to you._

_You were dead, you knew it. _

_He reached over with his free hand and pulled the knife out slowly as his metal arm released the grip on you. He held the blade up in front of you, now dark red from his blood. _

"_Moy," he said the word, tilting the blade back and forth. "Mine." He turned and walked toward the stairs, stopping for a moment at the top of them, turning to look at you. His face illuminated by the moonlight as he stared at you threateningly, "Stay."_

_The smell of blood and sandalwood hung in the air as you had waited until he disappeared down the staircase before you raised your hand up to look at it – the one that had held the knife. There was a smear of blood on your index finger – his blood – and you stared at it curiously for a few moments, the thought of having almost died at his hands at the front of your mind. _

_Why did he let you live?_

_Better yet, did you enjoy stabbing him? _

_You pressed your index finger inside your mouth – the metallic remnants swirled against your tongue – as you contemplated the questions._

The Winter Soldier had been your first taste of blood – literally – and your world hasn't been the same since. You like to keep your hit list as clean as possible: mobsters, pedophiles, murderers, etc. The basic scum of the Earth types.

After you make your morning coffee you find a large manila envelope lying on the hardwood in front of your apartment door, where it was shoved under the door sometime during the night. You already know what the contents of the envelope are – your next target. You place your mug on the counter and carefully peel back the metal prongs and open the flap, pulling out the file folder. Your heart stops as you open the file – the man in the photo you recognize – the name isn't what you know him by though.

James Buchanan (Bucky) Barnes

In a box toward the bottom of the page under aliases is the name you know him best by:The Winter Soldier. You stare at the photo a moment before you pick up your coffee mug and raise it to your lips, talking quietly to the photo you say, "Looks like you're mine."

You watch from the shadows as his head slowly lifts from his chest and he takes in his surroundings. Your aunt and uncle's house had been left to you, and it's sat vacant for years. The bedroom is mostly dark, with some moonlight creeping through the windows. You reach over and turn the table lamp on, illuminating the corner you stand in.

His eyes widen at your presence, voice groggy as he speaks, "Who are you? Where am I?"

You notice his voice is different than you remember from that night as you slowly walk towards the dining room chair you have him tied to, "You don't remember me?" You point to the pristinely made bed with the large steak knife in your hand. "You murdered my aunt and uncle in that bed right there."

He glances over to the bed and his eyes flash dark for a moment – realization sinking in. A sly smirk tugs at the corners of his lips as he flicks his gaze back to you, "You tried to kill me."

"Bingo."

"Why now?" He questions you, trying to move his arms against the restraints. His blues eyes fixing on you as he realizes you must have injected him with a paralytic. You can't tell if he's angry or impressed.

"Chalk it up to fate I suppose. I only take care of those whose names I'm given, and your name just so happened to come across my desk, so to speak," you smile coyly at the man as you move closer to him. "Looks as if we've come full circle."

"You're an assassin?" The realization sets in as you drag the knife gently up the black denim covering his thighs.

"Yup," the word pops out of your mouth cheerfully as you continue to run the tip of the knife carefully up the front of the dark green Henley he's wearing. "Just like you."

"You're not like me," he remarks quickly. "I was brainwashed into doing what I did."

You stop moving the knife, leaving the tip of the blade at his jugular notch, your face tilting close to his, "Then why didn't you kill me?" You stare into his blue eyes fiercely as he considers the question. "I've read your file – you don't leave witnesses – so why me?"

He continues to stare at you for a beat, "I don't know."

"Bull shit," you spit out. "You and he are the same person. You know exactly why – tell me."

You watch as he clenches his jaw, not wanting to answer and you run the blade along his collarbone causing small rivulets of blood to roll down his skin, soaking into the green fabric of his shirt. Straddling him in the chair you drape your free arm casually across his shoulder, twirling the length of his hair around your finger, "We can do this all night."

Bucky closes his eyes for a moment before he sighs, "Your eyes – there was a darkness in your eyes. You weren't scared." Blue eyes glance up at you, mere inches from your own. "When you stabbed me, you weren't scared. Most people would have been terrified – you enjoyed it." Your eyes narrow slightly as he shifts uncomfortably under you, letting you know there's not much longer before the paralytic wears off.

Running the knife along his jawline you smile innocently at him before you lean closer and press your lips to the corner of his mouth, his body tensing at your actions. Confusion is evident in his eyes as you lean back, your fingers still wrapped gently around his neck. He waits for you to stab the knife into his side like you did the first night – or maybe you'll slit his throat this time.

You stand up slowly, keeping your eyes trained on his as you do, "It was nice to see you again Mr. Barnes."

Bucky watches in surprise as you walk towards the bedroom door, "You're not going to kill me?"

"Kill you?" You glance back over your shoulder at him incredulously. "I can't kill you babe – you made me."

Hours later, after the paralytic has worn off and Bucky is back at his hotel room, he finds a small business card shoved into the back pocket of his jeans. Pulling it out he sees the words typed out in dainty letters _The Raven_. He flips the card over, the back reveals nothing and he quickly pulls his cell phone from his pocket dialing the first person he thinks of.

"Sam," he says urgently. "What do you know about an assassin they call The Raven?"

There's a momentary pause on the other end of the line before Wilson scoffs, "Dude, that's a ghost story. She's not real."

Bucky stares at himself in the dresser mirror, seeing the blood on his shirt from where you had sliced into his collarbone. He knows you're real, because he had seen you, felt you, and he can still smell faint traces of lavender, as if you're still straddling his lap.

The Raven isn't just any ghost story.

You're _his _ghost story.


End file.
